


November Rain

by FeatherBlack (jatty)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Not Oblivious (Good Omens), Crowley Has Feelings (Good Omens), Crowley Has PTSD (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Scene: The Bookshop Fire (Good Omens), Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-09-29 22:10:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20443373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jatty/pseuds/FeatherBlack
Summary: After Armageddon, Crowley has a few more scars than he accounted for and no temptations to keep him distracted from the pain of losing Aziraphale to the fire—even if his friend wasn't really gone.Aziraphale, for what it's worth, thought Crowley might need some time alone to figure out what he wants to do with the rest of their eternity on Earth.As per usual, he was wrong. Hopefully he can make it up to Crowley before it's too late.~These are the things that go through my head when "November Rain" by Guns N' Roses comes on.~





	1. tryin' to kill the pain

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, guys! I'm going to try really hard to make this a two shot and not a ten shot like what always happens when I try to write something short and sweet. This first chapter is very angst forward with notes pain and trauma. The next chapter will be heavy at the start and then trickle into the fluff <s>Crowley</s> we all deserve!
> 
> I hope you enjoy and please let me know what you think!

Every now and then, Crowley could smell ashes and smoke. Every now and then, he’d feel the nearly painful kiss of flames running up his spine. Sometimes, he’d be minding his own business—drinking alone at his flat or sitting with Aziraphale in the cozy bookshop—and suddenly he’d feel terror settle in the hollow pit of his chest. If he had a heart, it would be racing. If he needed to breathe, he would be panting. 

He’d find himself swallowing hard. He’d find his tongue splitting into a fork within his mouth as his eyes darted around whatever room he was in. He was checking for flames, he realized. He was desperately trying to taste the air for smoke he couldn’t see. 

Crowley didn’t dare sleep, haunted by shimmering flames every time he closed his eyes. Sometimes he would see the bookshop burning. Sometimes he would see the faces of archangels sneering at him from behind a column of fire. Whenever he tried to rest, he was crippled with the fear of flames taking away all of that which he loved. 

Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale was in danger.

Angel. 

_"Where are you!?"_

Crowley would rake his fingers through his hair, tug at the seams of his clothes, scream his frustrations out at his plants. He would do anything he could to keep himself from getting in the Bentley and speeding across town. He would do everything in his power to stop himself from picking up the phone for the sixth time in a day. 

How hard it was to be on his own after leaving the Ritz. How hard it was to sit in his own flat while Aziraphale was someplace else. Alone. All alone and at risk. 

The thought would strike him out of nowhere. He could be anywhere, doing anything, and suddenly he would be struck with so much terror—as if everything he had ever known and held dear had just been stolen from him. 

For months, Crowley had been a slave to his fear. He would leave his flat at odd hours just to drive past the bookshop and reassure himself that the building was still standing. He would call the angel’s telephone to ask him where he was, knowing he was in the shop, sometimes even able to see him through the window by the street. Sometimes—the worst times—Aziraphale would answer with a simple, “I _can_ see you, you know.” 

On better nights, Aziraphale would tell him, “It does appear I am at home, but do come check.”

For months, Crowley found himself petrified when he was alone. It was a sensation that had never happened to him before and he didn’t know how to cope. Alcohol just made him more prone to appearing on Aziraphale’s doorstep, looking like a madman with no self-control. Trying to stay put made his skin crawl with those invisible flames.

He could tell he was irrational. He could tell Aziraphale knew he’d gone mad. 

He knew all these things. Rationally, he knew that nothing was burning—Aziraphale wasn’t burning, nor was his shop—but the fear remained. The waking nightmares remained. 

Tonight was one of the nights Crowley could taste the smoke. 

He had been at the liquor store, one of his regular haunts, and suddenly tasted the burning paper and wood. It filled his throat and stung. Even with his eyes open and staring at the money being counted in the clerk’s hands, he saw Aziraphale’s prized books turning to ash all around him—no angel in sight.

_“Where are you!?”_

Crowley grabbed the paper bag off the counter and bolted for the door, leaving behind his change. The bottles clinked loudly as they were tossed into the passenger seat of the Bentley. 

“Call Aziraphale!” He commanded his cell phone, his hands clutching the steering wheel—his forehead pressed against his knuckles. He was panting heavily, making it hard to hear as the phone rang.

One ring. 

Two.

Three.

_“I can’t find you!”_

Four.

Five.

“Call Aziraphale,” he said again when the call disconnected—no ansaphone hooked up to the angel’s antique telephone. 

He could feel the blast of water striking his chest—shattering ribs and leaving him prone and struggling on the floor of that burning shop. Even under the icy water he felt too hot.

One ring.

Two…

_“For Somebody’s sake, where are you!?”_

“We are absolutely closed. Please do try again in the morning—”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley choked, realizing that his body was now hyperventilating beyond his ability to stop it.

“Crowley? Is everything alright?”

He was fine. Aziraphale was fine. Nothing was burning. 

Why was this still happening? 

Crowley was wheezing, seeing flames licking at the steering wheel and dashboard. He felt immensely overheated, making it harder to breathe.

_I don’t need to breathe. Stop. Just stop breathing!_

“Crowley?” The angel repeated, sounding more urgent. “Where are you?”

_“Where are you!?”_

He tried to talk but all that came out were more haggard breaths. Was he crying?

He was crying. Fuck.

Why was this happening? Why had he called Aziraphale like it was going to make a difference?—like it would do anything besides trouble the angel?

_“Aziraphale, where the Heaven are you, you idiot!? I can’t find you!”_

Crowley flinched as he felt a hand clasp his shoulder. His head shot up from the steering wheel, his eyes locking on Aziraphale’s—miracled into his passenger seat, the bottles of liquor moved to the floor. 

The phone made a digital chirp as the call dropped, taking with it the vision of flames and taste of smoke.

“Are you… Is everything alright, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley was staring, able to take longer albeit shakier breaths. “I didn’t know what to think by the sound of you.”

Crowley wanted to apologize, to explain, but all that came out of his mouth were desperate puffs of air. 

_You don’t need to breathe. Stop!_

Aziraphale was staring at him, sadly—worriedly. There was something more behind those blue eyes, but Crowley was terrified to go digging and find out exactly what.

“I fear there’s something you haven’t been telling me,” he said. “I’ve tried my best not to ask. I know you’ll tell me when you’re ready, if ever you are, but I am beginning to worry. I won’t pry, but… Well, my dear, please know I am here if there’s ever anything you’d want to discuss.” He offered one of his gentle, appeasing smiles—making Crowley’s mind race to all the other times he’d seen him smile like that, his brain dredging up a catalog of Aziraphale’s little grins and elated smiles. 

He thought of his smile at the Ritz. He thought of his smile on the wall in Eden. 

Suddenly, breathing was the least of his concerns. 

“There we are. You’re looking better already,” Aziraphale said, his smile warming a bit. “Sometimes, I think it’s best just to know you have a friend to lean on. Yes?”

“Somebody killed my best friend,” Crowley said, catching himself only after it was too late. “I-I thought you were dead,” he corrected. He wasn’t there anymore. There weren’t flames anymore. In this version of the universe, that awful little fire never even happened. So why did the glowing yellow embers behind his eyes summon such a ruthless sense of dread?

Aziraphale drew back from him a moment, blinking rapidly and turning to look out the windscreen at the other cars in the parking lot—looking anywhere except at the demon beside him who had clearly lost his mind.

“Just now? Tonight, you mean?” Aziraphale asked, looking at him with the same worried expression but out the corner of his eye. 

“Armageddon,” Crowley said. It was too late to come up with a feasible lie now. Anything he made up would only serve to make him sound more insane than he already was. “I was there—your shop burned down.” He knew his words made no sense, but his mind was still a swirl of smoke and flames and little, coveted smiles he’d been certain he’d never see again.

_“Somebody killed my best friend!”_

Crowley shuddered and fought to keep from squeezing his eyes shut—knowing it would just make the flames that much brighter.

“My shop? Oh! You mean… Oh, but it’s alright now,” Aziraphale said, offering his appeasement grin because he didn’t understand what Crowley meant. “Some new additions, but no worse for wear. You’ve seen it.”

“I was there—looking for you.” Now Crowley, too, was looking out the windscreen. “I couldn’t find you. The building was burning. All your books, everything, going up in smoke and I couldn’t find you anywhere. You were gone. Your presence was just gone, angel. Like you were never there to start with.”

“Oh. Oh, dear. This was after I’d been discorporated, yes. You never told me you were there…” Aziraphale was facing him again, a tenderhearted look in his eyes. “I should have realized. You had Agnes Nutter’s book—of course you’d been there.”

“I see it all the time. Taste it in the air. Everywhere I go. All the time. Ever since that day… ’S not natural for a demon to be afraid of fire, Aziraphale, but here we are.”

“Here we are...” Aziraphale echoed, clearly at a painful loss for words. “Would… Would you like to come back to the shop? Would it help?”

Crowley hesitated a moment, then nodded. He’d have to go there anyway to take the angel home after he’d miracled himself into the Bentley. 

“Excellent! I know you just got some, er, party favors, but I acquired a lovely crate of wine at an estate sale just this morning. A marvelous year. I have two reds I know you’ll be fond of and a rosé I desperately need you to try. If you don’t mind getting us there in one piece, that is,” he added, gingerly tapping his fingers on the dashboard before fastening his seatbelt. 

He drove carefully to the shop, or as carefully as he could with Queen belting out lyrics he knew by heart and was sick to death of hearing. When they arrived, Aziraphale carried his paper bag of liquor bottles for him into the shop and set it aside on his desk in the back room. 

“Have a seat. I do hate to bring it up, but you look like a strong breeze would knock you over, dear boy.”

So Crowley sank onto the couch and waited for the angel to serve him wine. He kept tasting smoke but desperately tried to ignore it. Maybe it was something to do with Adam’s correction of the universe? Maybe, underneath it all, this was a charade and they were standing in a building made of ash that they just couldn’t see?

The cinders smelled _so real._

“Here we are!” Aziraphale said, pressing a glass and a bottle into Crowley’s hand. “Look at that year! 1968! Do you remember those days?”

“Yes—I do,” Crowley said, reading the label and setting the bottle down. Aged wine was good, but half a century was pushing it, even on a sweet wine. 

“I have another one, a nice Port wine. Guess how old?”

“Oh...a century?”

“And a half!” Aziraphale added, practically beaming with joy. 

“You have to be careful with that. If you get something tampered with, the taste will be awful and you’ll be out...how much money?”

“We don’t need to worry about that,” the angel said with a bashful smile.

The angel’s eyes were fixed on him as he took his first sip of wine, eager to check his reaction as he swallowed. 

“Do you like it?”

“It’s good,” Crowley answered, looking down into the glass. Aziraphale’s expectant gaze was too hard to meet for long. He saw too much in those eyes—saw signals he simultaneously craved and dreaded. “A bit sweeter than I prefer, but tolerable. Good choice.”

Aziraphale beamed at him and took a sip from his own glass, clearly delighted. He let out a quiet “ah” of content after swallowing and looked about the ceiling and shelves around them. 

When Crowley did the same, he could see the shadows of roaring flames dancing around them and had to stop. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, his tone deceptively light. The demon could tell there was more weight behind it than he implied. 

“Hn?”

“When I was rather inconveniently discorporated and I reached you...you said you lost your best friend. Did you...by chance, and please do stop me if I’ve upset you—did you believe that I had… Well, it’s very presumptuous of me to assume—”

“I thought you were dead, angel. The shop… It felt like you’d never existed there at all. I can always smell you, sense you.” Crowley paused to take a sip of wine, attempting to quell his nerves. Aziraphale was staring down at his wineglass, swirling the red liquid slightly—just to keep his hands occupied. “I couldn’t find you...”

He felt his body start trying to breathe again—trying to go back to hyperventilating.

“That idiot man really made a mess of things,” Aziraphale said, tsking at his wineglass. “I was afraid he’d step into the circle. A holy force like that could really...ruin a man. If it can discorporate an angel, imagine what it could do to a mortal form!”

“I don’t want to!” Crowley choked, and then immediately swallowed more wine. He didn’t want to talk about it. He wanted to sit in the shop and make sure it didn’t even _think_ about catching fire again.

( ) ( ) ( )

Another bottle of wine down and Crowley finally lets his sunglasses slip off his face. He catches them sliding and then folds them somewhat haphazardly and sets them on the coffee table next to some spatters of red wine Aziraphale will miracle away later. For now, the angel’s focus is on the amber-colored eyes scanning his back room almost frantically—the way they have been all night and every night since they had thwarted Armageddon. Sometimes, just before he’d take a sip of wine, the tips of Crowley’s forked tongue would poke out just slightly from between his wine-stained lips—little spears of black and pink tasting the air. Aziraphale had mistakenly thought he did this to get a better appreciation for the bouquet of the wine—using his serpentine senses to get a modicum more enjoyment out of his drink—but now he realized it was something else entirely.

He was tasting for smoke. He was looking for fire.

Aziraphale didn’t know how he’d failed to realize in the months since Armageddon, Crowley had been suffering so immensely. He had thought, foolish as it were, that Crowley was just lonesome and bored without _his side_ to keep him occupied. That being said, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that there was more to the reason why Crowley slithered to his doorstep in particular time and time again. It was the very same reason that had Crowley agreeing to miracle _Hamlet_ into a success, and for him to rescue Aziraphale from the Bastille and endure consecrated ground to face the Nazis. 

He could’ve left Aziraphale’s books to be destroyed in the blast and buried under the rubble of that church, but he hadn’t. Yes, Aziraphale had known then—the moment that briefcase was pushed into his sweating hand—Crowley _cared_ for him.

Crowley _trusted_ him.

Crowley loved him and was trying his hardest to keep it under wraps, even as they sat here together in the bookshop. Yes, when Aziraphale looked him in the eye, he could see it. It was the expression of a frightened animal—a dog nervously pawing a human’s leg, hoping to be pet but also expecting to be pushed away. 

Only in this instance, if Aziraphale rushed to comfort him, Crowley would disappear. Aziraphale was certain of it. He would mistake the affection for pity—appeasement. Crowley would find some way to internalize the very legitimate, honest love Aziraphale felt for him and twist it into something ugly and ingenuine. Or worse, he would see it, accept it, and then believe himself unworthy.

Either way, if Aziraphale told him now, Crowley would vanish for who knows how long if not for the rest of eternity—and the earth would be a little less vibrant, a little less worth saving without Crowley to walk it with him. 

Now was not the time. It couldn’t be.

Right now, Crowley was feeling his way through the tumultuous emotions of a friend lost and then found again. He was still in that burning bookshop looking for Aziraphale who he had, for hours, believed to be dead. Those hours must’ve felt like years…

If only Aziraphale had known at the time—if only he’d understood the weight behind Crowley’s watery-sounding “I lost my best friend”—he could’ve made this right. He had mistakenly assumed Crowley was still upset about his refusal to run away to Alpha Centauri. He had been taken aback to hear Crowley so distraught over it, but had never once paused to realize Crowley thought him _deceased._

“How do you like this year?” Aziraphale asked, gesturing to the bottle of wine.

“Oh—Yes. Better than the last. You know I’m not much for sweet wines.” His words were slurred horribly; his S’s drawn out in a pleasantly natural hiss, however. 

“I am glad you are able to enjoy it. I am rather fond of the time we share together—whether here or out for a spot of lunch,” Aziraphale offered, trying to warm Crowley with a smile. He hoped that his gestures would be accepted, even if just at surface level; that Crowley might, if not understand his love, accept his kindness for now.

“You want… You want to go to lunch? It’s the middle of the night, angel,” Crowley said, trying to stand from the couch only to have his legs drop out from under him before he could even manage to take a step. Aziraphale had to internally applaud that despite his little tumble, Crowley didn’t spill a single drop of wine. “There’s an earth quake—did you feel that?”

“Oh, yes. Terrible quake,” Aziraphale said, pouring himself a glass while watching Crowley wriggle back onto the couch. “I thought the earth might split open and swallow us whole.”

“Follow us home?” Crowley slurred, the F extended for an unnaturally long time.

“No—swallow us _whole,”_ the angel enunciated.

“Are we at home, angel?” Crowley asked, looking around at the back room, the tips of his forked tongue poking out just slightly again.

“Yes, we are… Well—I am, at any rate. Always felt at home in my shop.”

“Always felt at home in my shop…” Crowley echoed, his head falling backwards at an alarming angle as he stared at the wall behind the couch.

“Perhaps you might like to sober up,” Aziraphale offered, longing for their old antics while getting drunk together. Crowley would be boisterous, playful at the very least, and Aziraphale could admire his energy and the attention the serpent granted him as he was frivolous in his discussion of books Crowley didn’t care about.

“Sober up? So now I’m too drunk for you—you’re the one who said come over.” He might’ve tried to stand up again, but all Crowley accomplished was slumping over onto the cushions of the couch. Aziraphale quite wondered if his friend had been drinking already prior to his trip to the liquor store. It seemed rather quick for him to be in such a state over a few glasses of wine…

That might also explain the desperate phone call he’d received and the fact that, for the very first time in six millennia, Crowley had allowed Aziraphale to see him vulnerable without immediately bristling in anger to hide it. He didn’t spit venom or go into hiding—didn’t speed off in his rolling death trap and leave Aziraphale staring after him in the dirt. He _cried_ and let Aziraphale coax him into coming home.

Well, not _home,_ home. Just to the shop—just so that he might see and realize it wasn’t burnt down and everything was alright.

It was so relieving for Aziraphale to have finally been trusted with the missing piece of the puzzle which formed the past few months. Crowley’s strange phone calls, his odd behavior, his way of showing up and staring at Aziraphale through the windows from outside on the street. Aziraphale _knew_ why Crowley was doing it, but he hadn’t known why Crowley was finally letting himself be caught. 

Crowley loved him, Aziraphale knew that. Crowley was still trying to get up to speed on that, as it were, and was still mentally trapped in the fire—still experiencing the loss over and over. He didn’t understand why it had shaken him so badly. He didn’t know how to explain and maybe didn’t want to. If only Aziraphale had realized it sooner that his friend had rushed into the fire trying to save him, had realized Crowley meant _lost_ his friend forever, he would’ve put an end to this before Crowley felt the need to show up unexpectedly at all hours of the night and call twice as often.

He’d just thought Crowley had become lonely and was finally working out the mechanics as to _why._

The poor fool was more helpless than Aziraphale initially thought.

“I really do think you need to sober up just a tad, dear,” Aziraphale said, swallowing a mouthful of wine while Crowley rocked back and forth with his face buried in the couch cushion. 

“I think I should go home,” Crowley answered. “I’ve really made a mess of things…”

Aziraphale tried to politely convince him otherwise, sobered up and tried a little harder, but moments later Crowley was sobered and gone—his sunglasses still on the table. 

( ) ( ) ( )

More so than the fire, Crowley was now haunted by that look of appeasement Aziraphale had given him in the car. The angel lured him back to the shop, let him get drunk off his wine, and politely pretended he didn’t want Crowley to leave when the demon suggested it was time. Crowley had managed not to set foot outside the bookshop since. 

How could he have allowed himself to act that way? How could he allow that to happen?

He spent six thousand years prowling Earth with the angel just to muck it all up in a single evening. Aziraphale had courteously put up with Crowley’s intrusive calls and sporadic appearances in his shop, but to worry the angel so much over something so stupid—and then down the angel’s bottles of wine selfishly and without giving thanks—that crossed a line. 

That crossed so many lines and Aziraphale was never going to call him out on it. 

He would just sit there and conservatively drink his expensive, rare wine while fixing Crowley with pitying, appeasing smiles.

No matter what he did, Crowley saw those smiles and the flames all around him. 

He Fell for a reason. He was damned _for a reason._ And certainly not so that he could spend his days cavorting with an angel of the Lord after preventing Armageddon. That wasn’t what demons deserved. There were no happy endings for them. They weren’t worthy of walking alongside God’s finest creatures—not even if they’d been doing so right under Heaven’s nose for centuries. 

He deserved to be sent away—to have Aziraphale finally pack up shop and disappear someplace without telling him.

What Crowley _deserved_ was to go into that shop, find it burning and empty, and burn along with it to the ground—then crawl around in the cinders and soot on his belly like the snake he was. 

He didn’t deserve to have Aziraphale back—and Aziraphale didn’t deserve to have a demon chasing his heels like a mongrel. Aziraphale had stopped Armageddon. He deserved to go about the rest of eternity in peace, alone and happy in his little bookshop _that wasn’t on fire_ without a serpent draining his bottles of good wine.

So why did his heart plummet into the pit of his stomach any time he thought that? Why did he feel sick and nervous, like he needed to go make sure flames weren’t consuming all of the old paper and wood? 

Crowley deserved to be alone in his flat, misting his plants in peace, but instead his useless heart would be racing, his worthless lungs filling frantically with air, while his mind screamed over and over.

_“Aziraphale, where are you!?”_

He didn’t let himself pick up the phone this time, no matter how much his heart wanted him to. He didn’t get in the Bentley, and he didn’t go to the shop. He sat on _his_ couch, drank _his_ liquor out of _his_ cup, and stayed _on his own._

Sometimes, if he focused hard enough, he remembered the one time in all of history Aziraphale had been here, too. He sat stiffly on the couch—too polite to complain beyond ‘form before function, is it?’—and gazed around. He complimented the plants which, for whatever reason, had Crowley blushing in shame. He didn’t _care for them,_ he told Aziraphale. They grew because they knew better than to not. The angel plodded around the flat, touching things—commenting on things, smiling at things, smiling at _Crowley._

Just when Crowley would start to slip back to that place—that friendly, inviting place—he would start to taste smoke and his whole body would go tense. It was the threat of anything he held dear being torn away from him—a second time. Heaven had torn everything from him—his name, his wings, everything—and sent him down into the burning, reeking pit of Hell. Then, it came back for more—taking Aziraphale and leaving him behind in the flames yet again.

It was too hard to convince himself that if he relaxed, if he let himself grow ever closer to Aziraphale as he had been the past eleven years, it would be ripped away—and permanently.

The last time was a warning. It had to be.

He couldn’t get any closer. He didn’t have a right. 

Crowley felt himself beginning to spiral, his unnecessary breathing getting heavier and heavier. 

The shop was burning. Aziraphale was gone. Heaven had taken him away to save him from Crowley’s influence. 

Suddenly, the shrill ringing of his phone yanked him out of the fire as forcefully as the icy blast of water that had knocked him to the ground in Aziraphale’s shop.

A telemarketer, he bet—who would be left in ruins by the time Crowley was finished with them. 

“What is it?” He answered.

“Oh—I’ve caught you at a bad time. I’ll call back another time.”

“Aziraphale, wait—don’t hang up.” Crowley’s mind had grinded to a halt at the very sound of the angel’s voice. The other side of the phone was silent except for the loud, electronic buzzing that signified Aziraphale hadn’t disconnected the call. “What… What’s up?” 

What’s up? Really? That was all he could come up with?

“Oh, I don’t know. Just feeling a bit restless I guess. I hadn’t heard from you in a while and thought I’d give you a ring.” He chuckled at his own proper use of casual ‘human lingo.’ “How are things, my dear?”

“Fine. Yeah, they’re fine,” Crowley said, looking around his flat at the sharp angles of his furniture as if it were all new to him. Maybe he’d forgotten for a moment that he was at home and not in the shop.

“I see. Up to any new wiles lately? Any tantalizing temptations?”

“No… Not much. Don’t really have a head office to report to. Hardly see the need if I’m not given any credit. Why? Have you been out performing miracles?”

“Oh, here and there, I suppose. You know what they say about old habits…” There was quite a bit of noise in Aziraphale’s following pause. “Crowley, I do hate to intrude, but…I wondered if you were alright. I haven’t seen you since that night a few weeks back and I worried whether or not you were feeling better.”

“Just had too much to drink is all. Happens.” He didn’t want to think about that night. 

“Yes… I was rather conflicted on whether or not to call. I know we all need some time alone here and there and if you need some time to yourself, I would certainly understand. I had simply worried that perhaps…” There was another heavy, lengthy pause as Aziraphale trailed off. Crowley couldn’t think of anything to say or even a sound to make to fill the silence. “Well, I suppose I’ve gotten used to seeing you about the shop… We’ve gotten rather close this past decade, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Close? I mean, yeah—yeah, of course. What, er, what about it?” Crowley leaned forward in his seat, embarrassingly enthralled by Aziraphale’s tone of voice. 

He sounded delighted and yet bashful. Crowley could practically envision the smile on his face—but not so much so that he accidentally found himself slipping through the phone lines and dripping into the angel’s shop unannounced. 

“It’s… It’s difficult to say, actually. What I mean is…” Aziraphale let out a deep, somewhat aggravated sigh that Crowley feared might be directed at him—for his own inability to contribute to the conversation. “It feels a bit of a shame to…to have gone through all this together and to just leave things how they were before. But if you need some time on your own, to sort things out and…and recover, I wanted you to know that I would still be here when you’re…when you’re back. And that I do hope you’ll visit, even if my shop is…_haunted_ for you now.”

Crowley, absolutely lost and yet somehow feeling cornered and trapped, ended the call and tossed his phone down to the far side of his couch as if it had burned him. 

Something about the words he chose, the sentiment in his tone… It left Crowley feeling as if his insides had been filled with molten lead. Warmed to the point of agonizing pain. 

What in the world was the angel saying? 

That after everything, every unannounced phone call and inappropriate appearance outside of the shop, Aziraphale wanted more? More serpent stealing his wine? More demon smell reeking up his bookshop? More…Crowley?

It was a lie—it must be! Just the angel doing what he thought he had to in order to be kind and patient and all the other things that made up a good angel. There was no way it could possibly be true. It wasn’t possible for Aziraphale to reciprocate Crowley’s very perverse and desperate feelings beyond the love his angelic nature commanded of him. It would be beyond cruel, beyond demonic, to make the angel stay true to such words spoken from a place of coercion. 

His true message was there—loud and clear—buried under his gentle words. 

_Leave things how they were before._

_We all need some time alone._

_Some time on your own to sort things out._

_I’ll still be here when you’re back._

Back to normal—back to being independent and stable and capable of _leaving Aziraphale alone_ like he wanted, like he used to before.

Aziraphale, too polite for his own good, had done his best to tell him, “Crowley, I understand you’re upset about what you saw in the shop, but until you’re back to normal, it’d be nice if we could both just have some time on our own.”


	2. we both know hearts can change

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I refuse to force fluff when it isn't naturally coming so I'll just make this a three part story instead of a twofer. Sorry!!

Aziraphale feared he had gone too far. He knew if he was too direct, Crowley would run—but it seemed that his attempts to soften his message made everything that much worse.

Crowley did not come by the shop again and neither called nor answered Aziraphale’s calls. 

Winter passed, then spring, summer, and then into fall… 

The passage of time felt slower, somehow. Perhaps, Aziraphale thought, it was due in part to him no longer taking up activities like he used to. He hardly bothered with estate sales—in fact, they were the first of his activities to be cut. Then, after shopping lost its appeal, so did drinking. He used to enjoy sharing a bottle of wine with Crowley or even just opening one to curl up with while reading poetry. Now, alcohol made him think of his friend and he couldn’t even think of wine without remembering the lost and haunted look in Crowley’s eyes the last time they drank together.

Crowley’s glasses were still on the table, gathering a film of dust. 

Sometimes, very seldom now, Aziraphale would take himself out for lunch. He’d have sushi or pick up pastries, but more often than not, food was left on his plate and he was apologizing to the chef for not having brought a large enough appetite. The pastries he brought home would sit in the box, forgotten, until they had grown mold.

Perhaps it was just the gray and dreary November sky, but it felt as if all the color had been sucked out of the world. The world that was still turning, still bustling with humans and life, because of him and Crowley…

Where was that serpent?

Aziraphale pulled on a large brown trench coat, made of the finest wool 1805 had to offer, and stepped out of his shop into the street. A cold mist hung in the air, the atmosphere damp and icy as it has always been in London’s early winters. He had the thought that he might need to go back inside for an umbrella, or at the very least a hat, but decided a small miracle would work to keep his head dry as he started to walk.

His feet carried him down the cracked and empty sidewalks, leading him up into a small, local café where he ordered a black coffee—a beverage so out of character for him that the barista looked taken aback.

“And a caramel latte for you as well, Mr. Fell?” She asked.

“Not today, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale said, fixing her with a smile he hoped didn’t come off too sad. “Just the coffee.”

It was hot and bitter, but it kept his hands warm as he journeyed on the down the street. 

How many times had he gone into that shop to pick up a latte for himself and a black coffee for Crowley? Dark roast, for he liked the beans to taste burnt. How many nights had they drank together until dawn, then sobered up to talk business while drinking coffee? 

Aziraphale regretted his phone call to Crowley that night more than ever. He hadn’t said a single word he would take back, but it was regrettable how the act of kindness pushed his dear friend farther away. He’d known it was too soon. He’d known Crowley wasn’t ready to hear it, but he thought it had been worth a try. Maybe, he’d thought, he could get through to him with his affections—bring him back to the present and take him away from the flames.

It would just feel so much better if Crowley would come to the shop and stay put. It was where he so very obviously _wanted_ to be. Why did he fight so hard to deny it? Why did he go home at all when he was happiest on Aziraphale’s couch? 

Maybe, Aziraphale thought as the mist began to turn to icy rain, what he should have said in that call was, “We both know you’d rather be in my shop so get on with it, you stupid serpent.” Maybe they could both benefit from being a little more direct.

It hardly mattered. He’d been kind and non-committal because he’d feared Crowley would hang up and go off the radar otherwise, and in the end that was exactly what happened regardless. He’d moved too quickly after years of trying to avoid Crowley’s rapid, tactless advances in fear of divine punishment. Now, after blatantly defying an archangel and going rogue, he had still yet to face punishment and was convinced he never would. (Not that he saw himself as untouchable, but at the very least a non-issue as far as the Almighty Herself was concerned.) 

Perhaps he had broken Crowley’s resolve—or worse, his heart. He could think of many instances in which he had said the wrong thing or been a bit too harsh. He’d always assumed Crowley took it with a grain of salt, as the old expression went. He seemed, at least on the outside, no worse for wear—not even after Aziraphale rejected his pleas to run away together, after telling him “I don’t even like you” and trying damned hard to mean it. Perhaps he’d said it all a bit too much and now Crowley was finally setting up boundaries so it could never happen again.

Aziraphale set his half-filled cup down into a waste basket he passed on the street corner with a ball of lead sinking down in his stomach. 

What if that were the case? Or what if Aziraphale had read him all wrong?

What if, instead of loving him, Crowley now hated him? Hearts could change. Everything was subject to change. Perhaps Aziraphale played it safe for far too long and he’d lost the only thing that made life on this earth bearable besides the books and the sweets…

He would give up all the food in the universe if it meant getting to spend an eternity with his like-minded friend in any capacity—love, hate, or indifference. In fact, it might even be exciting to go back to being rivals, thwarting each other at every turn, not knowing what to expect or where the wily serpent might pop up next. 

It wasn’t ideal or what he wanted deep inside, but it was better than _nothing._

Aziraphale found himself sinking down onto a sopping wet park bench, only having half the mind to miracle it dry after the water had soaked into the long train of his wool coat. It was raining harder now and the few people who were still out on the street rushed to and fro beneath umbrellas or with bags and books shielding their heads from the rain.

Was it cruel, what he had done?

In all of his years of existence, all the lifetimes he’d lived—all the centuries he’d seen fly past, all the lessons learned—he’d never felt so conflicted. When he gave away his flaming sword, he had at least felt purpose. He knew what he wanted to do and why he wanted to do it—and had a general idea of what the outcome would be.

Adam and Eve, out alone in the world. They would need protection! Something to ward off animals that might try to steal the baby in the middle of the cold, dark night. Maybe God would be upset at him for thwarting Her plans to off the very first humans She created, maybe his actions were _also_ a part of Her plan. It was _Crowley_ who had convinced him of that.

Crowley who had always been there for him since the dawn of existence… 

There was no Crowley here now to help him sort out his very tangled and jumbled thoughts. 

Probably no God to ask either—not that She had spoken to him since the flaming sword incident where he lied directly to Her proverbial face.

How hadn’t he Fallen for that, at the very least? 

He just had so many _questions._ It was horribly frustrating.

Instead of keeping his distance that final night at the bookshop, should he have, instead, sat next to Crowley like he wanted to and wrap his arms around him? Should he have told the demon to hush up and accept the affections if he resisted?

But that was so unlike him… 

Slowly, Aziraphale felt his miracles draining away and the cold waves of rain crashed down upon him. He sat, unmoving and lost in thought, only faintly aware of the growing weight of his soaked clothes and the trembling of his humanly frail, corporeal body. 

Angels were naturally empathic creatures—at least, as far as Aziraphale was concerned, they were supposed to be. He had been able to sense Crowley’s sentiments toward him for so many years. How was it possible that he’d gotten it so wrong this time? 

“Mr. Fell? Oh, my goodness, it is you! What’s the matter?”

Aziraphale’s head shot up when he felt a hand clasp down on his shoulder—pulling him from his thoughts and back into his shivering body.

It was the owner of the café staring down at him, an umbrella over her head to protect her from the rain which had made a sticky pool of fabric out of him. The sky had turned dark and the only light around him came from the orange lamps lining the street.

“Do you need me to take you somewhere, Mr. Fell? Can I call someone for you?” She asked, her voice frantic as her hand not holding the umbrella already sought to begin dialing on her cell phone. 

“That’s hardly necessary, thank you,” Aziraphale said, getting stiffly onto his feet. It seemed the cold had made iron bars out of his knees. 

“Are you sure? You don’t look well at all.” She was rubbing his shoulder, water positively oozing out of the wool coat under her ministrations.

“I’ll be alright. Seems I lost track of the hour. Do you have the time?”

“Just after nine. We just closed up shop a little bit ago.”

“I see. Well, do get home safely,” he said giving her a practiced smile as he tried to continue on down the sidewalk, only to have her step in his way. 

“Are you sure you don’t need anything? Anything at all? I wouldn’t mind going back to the shop and making a cup of coffee for you, if you need it. You haven’t been yourself the past few months, Mr. Fell, and I… Well, I’m worried, is all. It’s not like you to let your clothes get dirty,” she said, offering him a pitying smile. 

“Just a tad lost in thought. I do thank you for your concern. Have a pleasant evening,” he said, miracling her attention elsewhere so he could continue down the path. He miracled his clothes dry but his body remained shaking, so he miracled for an umbrella which he held in a numb hand. 

What did it matter if his miracles were frivolous now that he had no Heaven to report to?

What did it matter how he behaved if there was no one around to watch him and judge besides the Almighty Herself?

It didn’t. It _didn’t_ matter. 

He’d been such a fool.

( ) ( ) ( )

Crowley had been laying on his couch for eighteen days. It truly was wickedly uncomfortable, but he hadn’t the strength to move. Empty liquor bottles were laying just out of reach on his coffee table, on the end tables, on the floor. One bottle of red wine was still leaking sticky, crimson fluid into the rug. 

He magic’d away the flies, though, so it wasn’t a total pig sty. 

All he could taste was the hangover—the bitter, sour flavor of mixed alcohol on his tongue. He didn’t smell fire for once, just putrid, rotten wine.

Crowley hadn’t any intention of moving from the couch, not even now that the booze ran out. He was comfortably empty-headed and out of his mind. The only thing aching was his head, not his heart—not even his eternally damned soul.

Nope—he was absolutely fine, fine, fine.

Didn’t have his phone near him to hear it ringing. Didn’t have it within reach to send an SOS to the angel who had had enough of his lengthy breakdown without the daily updates. 

He wondered how the angel was now. Was he drunk, too? Drunk off that expensive rosé Crowley hadn’t gotten to try? Crowley always liked him drunk… He would get that little twinkle in his eyes, the same one he’d had at the Ritz. It was such a special, rare look that Crowley liked to pretend was meant just for him. 

He liked to do that, probably because he was a demon. He liked to pretend nice little insignificant things existed for him. As if anything on this forsaken planet existed for his enjoyment, least of all the angel Aziraphale. 

_“Aziraphale!”_

No. No, no. 

Crowley lurched up from the couch, inadvertently losing his balance and falling off onto the bottles and soaked carpet beneath him. 

He wasn’t doing this again.

Despite his best efforts, his forked tongue poked out and tasted the air—tasted the haze of rotten booze and his own stink.

And smoke. 

Couldn’t forget the smoke.

_“Somebody killed my best friend!”_

“No,” Crowley moaned, sliding along the floor on his stomach despite still having arms and legs. “No, they didn’t. He’s fine—he’s fine. Doesn’t even like you,” he said to himself. “Not even friends. Don’t even know each other.” He was speaking nonsense, but it blotted out the taste of smoke. 

But he could still hear the roar of flames, deafening him as he crawled toward his kitchen—or his bedroom. He wasn’t too sure. Someplace where the fire couldn’t reach him.

In the back of his mind, he could hear archangels laughing.

_“Shut your stupid mouth, and die already.”_

Maybe he should go back to the couch—he didn’t feel this awful when he’d been laying perfectly still on the couch.

“Crowley? Good Lord! What have you done to yourself!?”

No—No, no. He wasn’t doing this. He wasn’t going to crack. He was a demon of Hell, not some lunatic bound for the asylum. He was _not_ going to start hearing Aziraphale’s voice.

“Crowley! What’s happening to you?”

What was happening to him? He was drinking it over. He was putting it behind him—bottle by bottle. Another four and he was sure it would be like the fire never happened.

The fire never happened.

The shop was fine. The fire never happened and Aziraphale was fine!

“Oh, what have I done? I’m so sorry.”

Crowley felt hands heavy and hard, grasping at his shoulders and yanking him up from the ground. His arms dangled uselessly a moment—he forgot he had those—and by the time he was able to scramble back for the ground with them, he found his fingers clutching into soaking wet fabric. The cold water sent a shock through his system and he recoiled, flopping over backwards because he forgot human bodies were meant to have a rigid spine. 

Crowley blinked up at the ceiling, focusing his energy until his body began to feel more human and less serpent. Collapsing into a pool of scales wouldn’t help him ward off this vicious hallucination. 

Even so, his tongue flitted out quickly and tasted the air. 

He got a mouthful of smog and rainwater, coffee and ozone. 

“Angel?” He hissed softly, lifting himself up only to be crashed back against that awful, cold, wet fabric. He was being squeezed, his face pushed into the bend of someone’s neck—their hand on the back of his head. “Aziraphale?” He asked.

“I’m so sorry—I should never have left you alone. Had I only known…Oh, Crowley. What have you done to yourself?”

“Done to myself?” Crowley echoed, his senses overwrought with the smell of rain. 

This was real. Aziraphale was here, in his flat, holding him. This was more than a handshake, more than an accidental shoulder-to-shoulder brushing of sleeves. Aziraphale was touching him, holding him, and meant to be—there was intent in his actions. Was he forgiven now? How could that be when he was still so far from being _back to normal?_

“Oh, my poor dear. Okay—alright, let me help. Hold on.” Aziraphale’s voice was trembling and frantic, and the next think Crowley knew, he was being hoisted up from the ground. Any part of him that Aziraphale wasn’t supporting fell lithe, bowing and arching as if his form lacked bones. 

This wasn’t acceptable. This couldn’t happen. No—No, no.

Crowley let himself spill out of Aziraphale’s arms and crash back down onto the tiled floor of his kitchen. 

“Crowley!”

“S’alright. I’m alright.” He pushed himself up on his hands and knees, rolling his shoulders until they felt more solid. Aziraphale’s hand was suddenly on the small of his back—not pushing or tugging, just a comforting weight keeping him grounded. “What are you doing here?” Crowley asked, his vision swimming.

Aziraphale said something to him, but the words were lost as Crowley forced himself sober and healed the ache in his head.

“Had I known the condition you were in, I never would have allowed you to go.”

“You look like the one in no condition to be going anywhere. Good Lord, angel, has no one ever told you about the umbrella? Rather remarkable invention. Keeps the rain off your head so you don’t go around catching your death.”

Crowley slowly pulled himself onto his feet but found it hard to meet the angel’s gaze. He focused, instead, on Aziraphale’s soaking wet coat and the puddle of water he’d made on the floor. Every bit of him was absolutely saturated. The parts of Crowley that had been mashed into the angel’s chest when Aziraphale had tried to carry him off were soaked, too, and freezing.

“I… I neglected to grab one on my way out. I hadn’t realized it would rain.”

“It’s London. It always rains,” Crowley said, snapping his fingers behind his back to magic away the bottles and mess left in the wake of his year-long bender in the next room. “Do you want some tea?”

“No… No, Crowley, I rather think we need to talk.”

“Talk?” Finally, Crowley met his gaze and it took him by surprise to find the angel looking utterly distraught. It was as if the past year had aged him five times over, even though their corporeal forms were designed to stay the same. “Look, I’m sorry about all _that,”_ Crowley said, gesturing to the floor where he’d been slithering around—caught between being humanoid and snake. He was certain it looked as gross to an outsider as it felt to be inside. “Wasn’t exactly expecting guests.”

“I did intrude… Please, forgive me for that. I couldn’t wait any longer. I realized far too late that I may have, inadvertently, pushed you away. I didn’t want you to go, Crowley. I never wanted you to go. Please—you must realize that, too.”

“I think… I think I was the one who told you I needed to go home, angel. Not the other way around,” Crowley said, unsure what was causing that frantic look in the angel’s eyes.

“Oh, but I must’ve said something—I must’ve done something that kept you from...from stopping by. Or… Or perhaps—Oh, Crowley, I am so sorry! I spent all this time waiting for you to come around and never once thought to visit you for a change. I left you here, alone, to your vices simply because you didn’t come to the phone. I had thought you wanted some time on your own, but I fear I hurt you. No… I know for certain that I have.” 

He kept talking in circles—apologizing, pointing out the state of things (the state of Crowley), trying to explain how it had happened, and then apologizing again. 

He’d lost weight, Crowley realized, focusing more on Aziraphale’s corporeal body than his words. Words meant nothing to him now. Bodies spoke volumes that language never could. Aziraphale looked old and tired and sickly when his body should never age, fatigue, or weaken. 

“Did you… Did you miss me, angel?” Crowley interrupted, cutting off another string of repetitive apologies. 

“Did I… Crowley, what do you think I’ve been _saying_ this whole time?” Aziraphale exclaimed, sounding a little more like himself. 

“A whole lot of apologies I didn’t ask for?” Crowley suggested, looking away from him and then turning to retreat back into his living room. He wanted to lay down on the uncomfortable couch again. Nothing overwhelming had happened to him there.

“I merely thought you _wanted_ some time to yourself. I never in a _million_ years would have wanted that to drive you away.”

“What are you on about?” Crowley asked, sinking onto his couch and magic’ing for an unopened bottle of scotch. The very instant it appeared, Aziraphale snapped and it was gone again. 

“I need you _here_ with me, Crowley. _Please,”_ Aziraphale said, dropping onto the couch beside him so close that Crowley could taste the rainwater without even trying. 

His heart felt as if it leapt up into his throat as his eyes locked with Aziraphale’s. The pale blues were searching his face, digging deep beneath the surface and prying into the room which housed his tortured soul. He felt more exposed now than he had when Aziraphale found him crawling along his kitchen floor. He felt flayed open and raw. 

“Wh-what is it? What did you come here to say?” Crowley asked. His whole body jerked as he felt the angel’s hand close around his knee. He lowered his gaze, staring at the warm fingers squeezing him gently. 

People didn’t touch him. No one touched him apart from bumped shoulders and knocked limbs in crowded spaces. Now, Aziraphale had broken into his flat and tried carrying him and was in the process of caressing his knee. He couldn’t decide whether or not to slap the hand away or shatter beneath it. 

“I told you before that I wouldn’t pry, but I’m afraid that now I must. I have to know… I have to make it known to you how I feel.” 

The hand on his knee squeezed a little tighter, then began a gentle, stroking motion up a few centimeters and then back down. 

“And how do you… How do you feel?” Crowley asked, his heart stuttering. 

Like friends, Crowley thought. Like best friends. That’s how he felt. He’s seen right through you and he knows. How did you think you could hide it from him after calling him so many times and showing up uninvited? How did you think he’d be stupid enough not see when you sat there crying like an idiot in your car—

“I love you.”

Whatever Crowley had been expecting to hear, that wasn’t it. To him, it was the sound of shattering glass. The noise of gunfire and bombs.

He half expected blood to begin weeping from a bullet hole in his chest. 

Why was Aziraphale still trying to appease him? Why was he taking the charade this far? He had learned that angels and archangels in particular could be cruel, but not like this. Never like this…

“Whatever it is you feel, I feel it too. I’m sorry I hid it. I’m sorry I denied you and avoided it. I never meant to cause you pain.”

“You… You don’t have to say that,” Crowley choked. It wasn’t worth it to run into the bookshop, even if Aziraphale had been there. No one so vicious, so heartless could be considered a friend. Aziraphale was merely an angel, trying to do what he thought was right—trying to say what he thought would heal the broken, helpless creature in front of him. “You don’t need to do this.” 

Crowley reached to push Aziraphale’s hand off his knee, but as soon as skin touched skin, he froze. 

No one touched him…

He didn’t want it to go away.

“Crowley, look at me. Please.”

Slowly, Crowley lifted his gaze from their barely touching fingers and met the angel’s worried blue eyes. It still felt as if the angel were picking the locks on all of the hidden chambers of his soul, violating and probing and tearing the rooms apart. 

“I know it’s hard for you to open your heart to me, to anyone, after all that I’ve said to you—after all that I’ve done to you in the past. But… I-I don’t believe I’m wrong when I say that I can see you love me, too. And if...if you do, if you _wanted to,_ then please. _Please._ All I ask is a chance to love you from up close, not afar.”

His eyes remained searching, his holy essence ransacking all of the secret corners of Crowley’s heart like a thief in the night.

Was it possible that he meant it? Could that really be true? 

Crowley looked down at their touching fingers again and slowly slid his palm over top of Aziraphale’s. The touch felt electric. He wanted to melt into it, to cease being himself and become a part of Aziraphale’s form. 

Probably wouldn’t end well—angel, demon. Would probably explode. 

Just like this whole thing was about to—right in his face. 

He withdrew his hand and scooted away on the couch. He couldn’t. 

Aziraphale reached for him again and Crowley shied away, even as the hand fell warm and gentle on his shoulder. 

“If you… If you would rather I left, I would. Perhaps I have misunderstood… How foolish of me.”

The hand fell away and Crowley was left staring at the part of him where it had been. 

“I can’t even begin to wonder what you must think of me. Barging in here like I own the place… I should have realized you’re not a young damsel in distress. If you’d wanted to see me, you would have. How could I—”

“When did it happen?”

“I… I’m sorry?”

“You said you loved me. When did that happen? After you told me no to Alpha Centauri?”

Aziraphale was finally silent.

“After I stopped time for you?” He offered. He knew his tone sounded bitter. He knew his posture was going rigid and defensive. He couldn’t help it. He didn’t want offered the world again only to have it yanked away. He’d already lost Her love and was doomed to an eternity without ever experiencing it again. Crowley couldn’t bear to hear the angel offer the same beautiful, warming, fulfilling thing only to discover it was a lie. 

“In Eden…” Aziraphale whispered, and _by God,_ it did sound like a confession. “On the wall. And at the Globe Theatre… The Bastille. That night in the church. Everywhere. Maybe not in that rolling death trap you call a car, but...most everywhere else. In Rome when we had oysters. Do you remember?” 

Crowley glanced up to find the angel smiling at him, his blue eyes sparkling the faintest bit.

“You got drunk and put your laurel crown on my head,” Aziraphale said. “I kept it for many years, but a highwayman stole it in 1664. I remember it well. The bishop I was traveling with scolded me for crying over material objects.”

“You really cried over it?” Crowley asked, finding that the easiest of his concerns to voice. 

“Well, not hysterically,” Aziraphale said, suddenly ducking his head and fidgeting with his hands. “It was all I had of you at the time. Other than _Hamlet.”_

“You kept it...”

“I know I probably should have given it back to you, but you had returned to your lodgings and when I realized I still had it… Well, I didn’t _want_ to. I think a part of me had hoped you might come back looking for it, but I didn’t see you again for centuries.”

They fell quiet after that, Aziraphale’s hand on his shoulder—not squeezing or holding, just resting there. His thumb occasionally tapped out a little nervous rhythm. 

( ) ( ) ( )

“The bookshop,” Crowley said, calling Aziraphale out of his winding, tangled thoughts.

“I-I beg your pardon?” Aziraphale said, wondering if he had missed something and not sure how he could. The silence in Crowley’s flat was deafening and though his thoughts were spinning like the tires of a car in the mud, he didn’t know how he could have missed a syllable. 

“The bookshop—that’s when I knew,” Crowley said, looking at his hands which were folded and twitching in his lap. “You’re my best friend, angel. My _only_ friend. It feels wrong to be anywhere besides where you are. It felt like...like the reason for everything was just snuffed out of existence. I went in there, everything burning—everything just gone up in smoke—and no sign or sense of you anywhere.”

“That must’ve been so horrible,” Aziraphale said, taking a risk and beginning to rub up and down Crowley’s arm. The demon shivered and shied away at first, then slowly leaned into the touch. “I can’t imagine how I would feel if our roles had been reversed.”

“You’d go on without me, is what,” Crowley said, shuffling away. Aziraphale let his hand drop into his own lap and tried not to feel dejected. 

“I might, yes… But I would feel very empty, very lonely without you. This past year has been, well, not to be terribly morbid, but not worth living. It’s been very cold, Crowley, very lonesome without you visiting my shop. I’ve rather come to depend on seeing you this past decade or so. I look forward to it. I feel complete so long as you’re in the room, and when you’re not…”

“You don’t really mean that, angel,” Crowley said, shuffling further away until he was partially draped over the arm of the couch—as if he were about to go serpent and crawl away.

“Oh, on the contrary! I most definitely do.”

“You don’t have to try and appease me. If you want me to come around, I will. But not for all this—this false affection. You don’t have to appease me.”

“I’m not trying to _appease_ anyone, Crowley! I’m making a confession—I’m just making it known to you how I feel. How I _truly_ feel in regards to you! I love you, Crowley. I… I thought you felt the same.” He became more frantic as Crowley had tipped over the arm of the couch mid-sentence. This conversation wasn’t going at all the way he had planned—not that he could have accounted for his friend flopping over like the bones had been miracled out of his body. Crowley was still slipping over further and further, preparing to hopefully turn into a serpent in his attempt to slither away from the couch. Aziraphale didn’t think he could handle the sight of that human body operating under serpent mechanics twice in one week let alone the same evening. “Will you please sit still!?” Aziraphale scolded, placing a hand on Crowley’s knee and squeezing. 

The touch seemed to be just enough to get Crowley to snap out of his haze, and with a painful-sounding groan, he was sitting upright and clutching at his head.

“Angel, this really isn’t necessary. I’ll come by the shop next week or something. You don’t need to go this far.”

“This isn’t some attempt to get you back in my shop! Do you really think I’m _lying_ about any of this?”

“What’s the point? Aziraphale, we’ve been on this earth for six thousand years. Why bring this up now?”

Aziraphale dared to move a little closer while Crowley still kept his face covered with his hands. Their thighs were close to touching and Aziraphale was able to reach an arm around Crowley’s shoulder and pull him in to a gentle embrace. Crowley shivered violently and Aziraphale realized with a start that his clothing was still soaked. He miracled himself dry and loosened his hold on Crowley, expecting the demon to pull away.

Instead, Crowley stayed put—his cheek resting lightly on Aziraphale’s recently dried chest. Aziraphale took the opportunity to tighten his grip again, hugging Crowley to his chest and rubbing a hand slowly up and down his back. 

“We’re on our own side,” Aziraphale said, trying not to let out an audible sigh of relief when Crowley lifted an arm and wrapped it around him as well—holding him in return. “No Heaven to report to, no Hell to punish you for being seen with me. It… It felt like the right time. A _safe_ time. But I was afraid to overwhelm you. I thought if I gave you space and time, you might...might make the first move. At least then I would know you were comfortable. And then, learning that you had been so badly wounded from the fire...it was another layer I needed to process. I thought confessing to you then or trying to get one out of you would be inappropriate. I didn’t want to make light of what you’d endured by slapping a label on _us_ and declaring the matter settled. I’m not very skilled in interpersonal things like this, I’m afraid. I feel like I bumbled the whole thing up.” 

The whole time he spoke, Crowley stayed perfectly still in his embrace. He was still clutching at Aziraphale’s shoulder, still allowing himself to be held in return. Aziraphale would pause, hoping the demon might speak up, but Crowley maintained his silence. Even after he’d run out of things to say, Crowley was quiet—pliant in Aziraphale’s arms. 

Aziraphale stayed still and let his friend work it out. Let him make the next move, Aziraphale decided, no matter how long it took. They had all of eternity to take the next step—either together going forward, or apart and their separate ways.

The angel had his chin rested atop Crowley’s head and slowly allowed his eyes to slip closed. Crowley wasn’t talking so he wouldn’t either. It felt like a terrible place for their discussion to end, but so long as Crowley stayed hugging him, Aziraphale didn’t count it as a loss. 

Then, rather suddenly, he felt Crowley’s arm fall from his shoulder and he tensed—expecting Crowley to say something now or at the very least pull away. Instead, the silence continued to draw out and the only difference was how much more weight Crowley had pressed into Aziraphale’s chest.

He’d gone to sleep.

Demons and angels, neither of them ever _needed_ sleep. Which meant, he’d chosen to. 

Aziraphale sat there baring his heart and Crowley went to sleep. 

Maybe he’d just gotten so comfortable he felt the impulse to indulge and had taken it. Maybe he was overwhelmed and wanted a more definitive and less active escape than getting up and running away. 

Or maybe, Aziraphale had a long time to piece together theories, this was a test. Perhaps Crowley expected Aziraphale to lose patience with him and sneak off into the night, leave him alone to awake by himself some other time. 

If that were the case, the demon truly had another thing coming. 

As slowly as he could, and perhaps using a small miracle or two, Aziraphale had laid back on the couch and shifted so there was enough room for him to lay on his back with the demon laying on his side next to him. He still had an arm around Crowley, keeping the demon pulled onto his chest. One of Crowley’s arms was crossed over him, palm dangling over the edge of the couch toward the floor, and one leg hooked over Aziraphale’s. 

Aziraphale had miracled himself a pillow and stared at the blank expanse of ceiling overhead. His coat was now off and folded on the coffee table along with his suit jacket and bow tie, giving him more room to breathe, so to speak. The couch was as awful as Aziraphale remembered the night he’d stayed over—the night they’d concocted their great plan with the help of Agnes Nutter’s final prophecy. It was, however, a little more bearable with the added weight and warmth of Crowley beside him. 

Aziraphale raised a hand to gently stroke a single lock of Crowley’s frazzled, copper hair. 

He still didn’t like the couch or the overall aesthetic of the flat, but he could get used to this.


	3. don't you know I feel the same?

Crowley had gone to sleep in hopes that Aziraphale would put him out of his misery and leave. He couldn’t take another moment of the sweet words, the kindness he didn’t deserve. He couldn’t bring himself to pull away or shove Aziraphale back. He didn’t really want him to go, but he couldn’t bear the idea that he’d hurt Aziraphale so much with his absence that the angel was willing to come here and lie, plead, for his attention. So he’d done the best he could… He willed himself unconscious. He let himself fall limp in Aziraphale’s arms and let his world turn to icy blackness. 

That being said, he was caught somewhere between desperately pleased and horrified when he awoke to warmth, to being caged in Aziraphale’s arms. He’d stayed. Aziraphale had stayed and held him.

Also, Crowley realized as he breathed in a long drag of oxygen, he hadn’t dreamt of fire. He hadn’t dreamt of anything. 

“Finally awake, are you?” Aziraphale said, his own voice sounding rough and groggy. 

Crowley sat up so quickly his brain felt swimmy for a moment or two, his eyes struggling to focus on the angel’s placid face. 

“S’rry. Sssorry.”

“Whatever for?” Aziraphale asked, smiling rather facetiously. “Willing yourself asleep to get away from me, or because it didn’t work?” 

“Er...both?” Crowley said before his brain caught up with him and registered the nearly hurt expression on Aziraphale’s face. “Neither? I don’t know, angel. I’m… I’m just sorry.”

“Did you even listen to a word I said?” Aziraphale asked, as if their conversation hadn’t been interrupted for however many hours or days of silence.

“I… Some of it,” Crowley said, scratching his head and looking away toward any fixture in the room that wasn’t Aziraphale. “Something about...feeling like now’s the right time an’ not...not wanting to make a move after I told you about the fire.” He felt ashamed of admitting all of that now. If he’d known it would affect Aziraphale so much, he would’ve kept it to himself. 

“It’s not that I didn’t want to _make a move,_ Crowley. I didn’t want to downplay what you’d gone through or make you think I was only saying it to make you feel better—to _appease_ you, as you keep putting it.”

“Right… Of course.” Crowley swallowed hard against the lump which had formed in his throat. 

“You still believe that, don’t you? That I’m making it all up...” He sounded angry and Crowley’s mind was reeling, trying to place where it had all gone wrong—trying to think of something he could say to salvage this, even the smallest bit, so six millennia of friendship didn’t go to waste. 

“No. Of course not. I… It’s just a lot, is all. I really didn’t think you’d...”

“Stay?” Aziraphale asked.

“Well...yeah.”

“Do you want me to leave?” Aziraphale asked, sounding torn between being sad and bitter. 

“Not particularly...”

“Then, may I ask, what _do_ you want, my dear boy?”

Crowley swallowed hard again, not sure why his throat was sticking so badly, not sure why he was feeling pure terror in the pit of his stomach. If he spoke now, there’d be no taking it back. He felt like he’d said too much already. He told Aziraphale about the bookshop, admitted to having a romantic interest in him… But if he asked, if he said what he wanted, and Aziraphale said no—or worse, if he said yes just to appease him and it all fell apart—their friendship would be over. There would be no going back… There would be no fixing it. 

“Really, Crowley, if you won’t speak to me, I shall have to go home.”

The words very nearly summoned tears to his eyes. He felt like he should let Aziraphale go—like he should nod and say that was for the best. But that wasn’t what he _wanted._ Aziraphale asked what he wanted, not what he felt he should do—felt he should say. He’d slept on the angel’s chest, keeping him from the countless other better things he had to do for however long he had. He owed it to Aziraphale to be honest.

“I… I don’t want you to go,” he said, earning a heavy sigh from Aziraphale. 

“Yes, you mentioned that. Anything else?”

Swallowing the ever-present lump in his throat, Crowley reached over and gently clasped Aziraphale’s hand—barely touching it really yet feeling a rush of heat travel up and down his spine. 

“Want you to stay...” He said, hoping the angel might understand. He was smart—he was so intelligent… 

He had to know.

But knowing wasn’t enough for Aziraphale. He wanted to hear Crowley say it.

“Yes. I’ve established that. Why? What do you _want,_ Crowley?” Aziraphale wriggled his hand in Crowley’s grasp, making Crowley pull back hesitantly. He thought, for a moment, that his gesture was being refused—that Aziraphale’s patience had finally run out and he was rejecting the gesture and his affection completely. Then Aziraphale had switched the position of their hands so his was on top, twining their fingers together. 

Crowley stared at their laced fingers for entirely too long and was still staring at them when he whispered a meek, “I want you to stay with me. In the shop, here… Anywhere. I… I love you, angel. I want to be with you.” The final word was choked off as he struggled to swallow around the lump which had moved to his mouth. 

“There now. Was that really so difficult?” Aziraphale asked in that horribly affectionate, patronizing tone he had mastered over the centuries. 

Crowley’s head very nearly hung in shame before he was being tugged into an embrace—pulled back down where he had been when he’d awoken. Aziraphale’s arms were around him, his fingers digging ever so gently, yet possessively, into his sides. He didn’t know what to think—what to say—or how to act. Aziraphale was nuzzling his hair and Crowley was laying still like a corpse, knowing it was the wrong thing to do but too panicked to make a decisive move. 

Should he hug back? Should he try for a kiss? Was that too presumptuous? Aziraphale had said he loved him the night before—the week before? How long had he slept?—but he didn’t necessarily say romantically. He never said, “Crowley, I need your lips on mine” or “my dear, I need you in the most carnal of ways.” He just said he loved him. That meant...so many different things.

“My dear boy, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve discorporated,” Aziraphale said, chuckling almost nervously, hugging him a little tighter.

In an instant, Crowley had his arms around Aziraphale and was snuggled purposefully into his chest. He still didn’t know what to say or how Aziraphale wanted him to behave, but he was trying. He had fallen asleep with the thought that he would wake up alone; he wasn’t prepared to be given affection and love. 

“Are you alright?”

“Mn… I’m—I’m...processing,” Crowley said dumbly. Aziraphale made everything so much worse when he started running his fingers through Crowley’s hair in soft, gentle strokes. 

“Do you like this, my dear?” Aziraphale asked, his voice so deep and so soothing. 

“Think… Think you’ll make me fall back asleep,” Crowley mumbled, taking a deep breath—allowing the angel’s grace and scent and cologne to flood his throat. No smoke, no fire—no char or cinder. Just Aziraphale. 

“You had better not, or you’ll be waking up in the lake!” 

Crowley felt himself start to smile, his eyes slipping closed as Aziraphale continued stroking his hair.

“You also didn’t answer my question… Do you like this or not?” When Crowley tried to give a quiet affirmative hum in response, Aziraphale pulled his hand away. “I shall stop then.”

“You don’t have to,” Crowley offered.

“No, no. It’s alright.” Instead of the gentle petting of his hair, Crowley was given a few pats on his back. “I would like to sit back up, though.”

“I liked it,” Crowley said, embarrassingly quickly. He didn’t want to move, he didn’t want this to stop. 

He didn’t expect it, but he was rewarded with the continued stroking of his hair. 

“Perhaps… Would you care to make this a more...permanent arrangement? You and me. _This?”_ Aziraphale emphasized the word by stroking his hand down the back of Crowley’s neck all the way to the small of his back. 

Crowley’s entire body prickled with sensations he hadn’t felt before, his eyes going wide. He could practically feel his pupils expanding. He expected Aziraphale’s hand to go lower—of course it didn’t, but he hoped. Hoped? Oh, yes… He hoped that was an offer for more. He would take anything Aziraphale would give, even the smallest scrap.

So why couldn’t he answer? Why was his jaw clamped shut?

Why was Aziraphale taking his hand away?

“Terribly sorry,” Aziraphale said, starting to sit up—pushing Crowley back by his shoulders when Crowley didn’t move of his own volition. “Seems that I may have moved...too quickly.” He laughed self-consciously and Crowley was choking on little swallows of air—trying to find words.

“I liked it,” he stammered. “I-I… I would like that. Permanent.” He glanced up at Aziraphale’s face and felt his cheeks grow hot. The angel was smiling at him, his eyes practically twinkling. “If that’s something you’d want,” Crowley added, unable to handle the all-too-affectionate silence.

“I could think of nothing that would make me happier, my love.” Aziraphale’s punctuated the sentence with a well-articulated stroke to Crowley’s cheek. 

The skin of his palm was so warm and so, so soft. 

Crowley closed his eyes and nestled into it, a quiet hiss of pleasure involuntarily ripping its way out his throat. His heart felt so full, his brain teeming with the angel’s kind words—affectionate words he never expected to hear, still couldn’t believe he had earned. 

“I feel we’ll have to work on the communication aspect some other time,” Aziraphale said, chuckling as he pulled his hand away. 

“I liked it,” Crowley said. It felt like the only phrase his mouth could form. It held the power to make Aziraphale touch him—it kept Aziraphale close. He _needed_ Aziraphale close. “I… I really like it, angel,” he said, wetting his lips nervously. 

Everything was on the table. Every tender, soft part of him exposed to the angel’s scrutiny. 

Aziraphale still had that same, knee-weakening smile on his face as he scooted the smallest bit closer on the couch. Crowley absolutely squirmed in an attempt to stay still. 

“May I?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley didn’t know what the angel wanted, but he nodded regardless, meeting the angel’s eager, sparkling blue eyes. 

Next thing he knew, Aziraphale’s hand was back on his cheek but this time it was pulling him in—bringing his face closer. Crowley felt his throat clamp shut on the inhale he’d been trying to take, his eyes going wide in anxious surprise and longing. Was this happening? Was it really happening?

Aziraphale’s eyes slipped closed and yet Crowley’s were still blown wide, gaping as the angel’s soft mouth pressed against his own. The kiss was, at first, gentle, then grew hungry—the soft press growing firm and eager, lips parting and giving way to a hot, slick tongue. Crowley gasped into the kiss, his eyes finally squeezing shut as he felt Aziraphale’s other hand grab at his hip and pull him closer. 

His heart felt so full he was absolutely convinced it was going to explode. A demon could never be loved by an angel without consequence. He was going to discorporate.

He could feel it happening.

“Oh, my dear. My love,” Aziraphale panted, pulling back as Crowley began to sob. 

Fuck. He was crying again. Aziraphale’s thumb was wiping away the tears as they fell from his left eye. 

“I liked it,” he whispered, his voice shuddering as he relied on the only words he had to convey to Aziraphale all the overwhelming things he was feeling. It took all of his effort and strength to will the tears away. 

“I know,” Aziraphale said, leaning forward to kiss the tear track on his right cheek before finally drawing back. “Would you, perhaps, like to continue this back at the shop? I’m afraid my customers have probably thought I’ve closed shop for good by now.”

Crowley tried to answer, but his tongue didn’t work—it was still buzzing with the sensation of Aziraphale’s against it—so he nodded instead. 

“We shall definitely have to work on our communication,” Aziraphale said, smiling warmly and stroking his cheek again. How he fit so much love and tenderness into such a simple gesture, Crowley wasn’t sure—but he knew better than to question it. 

( ) ( ) ( )

Aziraphale was tidying up his shelves, clearing away dust and a few errant spider webs, when he heard a loud clatter come from the flat upstairs. Crowley had been napping for a few days, finally feeling comfortable enough in their closeness to treat the space as his own, and just a few hours earlier Aziraphale had gone up to drape an extra blanket over him. February was such a harsh month and it felt chilly upstairs. He’d seemed at ease then, but now Aziraphale could sense his tension.

The fumbling came again, followed by frantic footsteps in the stairwell heading down.

“Angel? _Angel!?”_ The second time, it came out as a scream even though he hadn’t given Aziraphale a single second to reply to his first call. The lone shopper browsing in the row of shelves across the way looked to Aziraphale who offered her a weak smile before sighing and stepping down from his little stool, wiping his hands on the thighs of his trousers. 

“Here, my love!” Aziraphale called. 

Moments later, the door to the stairwell burst open and Crowley was standing there—hair sticking out in all different directions, shoulders rising and falling rapidly under the force of his panicked breaths. 

“Bad dream, darling?” Aziraphale asked, using a quick miracle to send the shopper on her way, empty-handed, of course. 

Crowley stared at him, gaze softening—shoulders falling and staying down. 

“I want to go to the Ritz.”

“They’re closed until seven… It’s three o’clock.”

“Seven Park Place then.”

“I’m afraid they’re closed. It’s Sunday, my dear.”

“Anywhere, then. Let’s go anywhere. I—I want to take you out.”

“Bad dream?” Aziraphale asked again. They were still working on being more open with each other, Crowley struggling the most. His solution to everything seemed to be ‘suffer in silence.’

“What about it?” Crowley asked, sounding exasperated.

“Did you have a bad dream, darling?” Aziraphale pressed, ever patient. 

“What about it? Let’s just go out. I’ll start the car—”

“I’m not getting in that death trap you call a car until you answer my question,” Aziraphale said, moving to get back on the stepping stool to finish up his organizing. 

“Yes—Alright, fine. I had a nightmare. Bookshop’s burning. Angel’s missing. Can we leave? I want to go out.”

“Oh, alright then,” Aziraphale said, offering a smile. “Let me grab my coat. Perhaps we can find a nice place to eat while we’re out.” Crowley followed behind him every step of the way. He caught a glimpse of Crowley’s serpent tongue darting out to taste the air. “You know… I think I’m feeling a nice, hearty pasta.”

“Yes. Good—fine. That sounds fine. Anywhere you want to go.”

Crowley was panting again, very clearly still reeling from his nightmare. They happened from time to time when he slept—even if he just dozed for an hour or two out of boredom while Aziraphale tended to the shop. He tried to get Crowley to talk about them, even if it was just the smallest bit—even if it was just to acknowledge that, yes, he’d had a nightmare. He got a little better each time, but Aziraphale knew he’d never be eager to discuss them. 

They went for a late lunch, early dinner, where Aziraphale ate a hearty bowl of pasta and Crowley downed a bottle of wine himself while Aziraphale was content with the white wine that had been paired with his dish by the chef. 

After their meal, they walked around the local shops. Aziraphale kept Crowley’s hands folded in his own and tucked into his coat pocket to keep it warm since his darling had neglected to bring gloves. 

“I do wish there a way for me to help you, darling,” Aziraphale said, stroking Crowley’s hand in his pocket with his thumb. “I hate seeing you so distraught.”

“They’re just nightmares. ‘S nothing to be worried about.”

“They’re more than that, dear, and you know it. Is there _anything_ I could do? Anything at all?”

“You do more than enough,” Crowley said, quite dismissively—which meant there was something he could do and Crowley didn’t want to admit it. 

“Perhaps it might help if I were to lay down with you?”

“I can’t ask that of you, angel. I like to sleep. You don’t. And I don’t know how long I’ll sleep. I don’t want to to inconvenience you like that.”

“Is there anything that you think...might be contributing to these nightmares? Am I keeping the shop too warm?”

“I like it hot… I’m a serpent. Winter’s so hard on me,” he said, drawing out every ‘S’ to emphasize his hiss. 

“Is it something else?” Aziraphale pressed.

Crowley was quiet a long time before he ducked his head and admitted, “It’s the shop. Being in the shop. I thought it would help… I think it makes it worse. I see the fire everywhere. If I squint, I can see the ash on everything. I don’t want to leave; I want to be near you. Please don’t think I’m asking for space.”

Aziraphale pondered this a moment, Crowley seeming to accept his silence without much anxiety. Once the initial few weeks of newness wore off, they had eased back into their former routine—only with quite a lot more touching involved. Crowley didn’t initiate much, but Aziraphale was sure that would come in time. Confidence, like anything else, needed time to grow. 

“I do love my shop...and it’s quite the fixture in Soho.”

Crowley nodded, his gaze still downcast toward the sidewalk. 

“Perhaps it is time for a change...” He said with a sigh. “Maybe a library or...or a little museum might be more in alignment with what I want for my collection. It would certainly attract the kind of people who appreciate the literature.”

“You don’t have to make that kind of change for me. The nightmares aren’t going to stop if you close up shop and move it somewhere else. They’ll always be there…”

“My dear, I would like to try. If it’ll alleviate your pain in any way, _any way_ at all, it’s worth it to me.” Aziraphale glanced over in time to see a small ghost of a smile cross the demon’s face. “What if we tried a vacation? It’s so cold and I know the cold wreaks havoc on your poor form. Why not take a trip somewhere? We could go to the tropics. Maybe the tropics? Or what about South America? Or—Or just Southern America. They have some wonderful comfort dishes I really do enjoy.”

“Anywhere you want to go,” Crowley said, passing Aziraphale a gentle, appreciative smile. “I’d like that.”

Aziraphale returned the smile and stopped walking in order to pull Crowley closer to him, leaning up to place a soft kiss on his demon’s lips. He could feel Crowley smiling into it, then felt a forked tongue dart quickly into his mouth and then retract just as fast.

“Bastard,” Aziraphale muttered, pulling away with slightly flushed cheeks. Crowley always caught him off guard with that at the most inopportune times. 

They continued on down the sidewalk, Crowley walking a little closer to Aziraphale’s side—their shoulders brushing with every step. 

“America, I think. That sounds nice. We could rent a little house in New Orleans. I don’t think we’d stand out there.”

“I’ve never been,” Aziraphale said, smiling fondly at the idea—renting a little house somewhere someplace new, someplace no one knew them. “Yes. I think it’s a splendid idea.”

The discussion was settled with a quick kiss on his cheek from Crowley, one of his few initiating gestures, and Aziraphale squeezed his hand in return. 

He wouldn’t trade little moments like this for the world.


End file.
